Peril at End House

‘It may have been an accident. It is impossible to say. But the damage to the brakes of your car—that was not an accident. And the stone that rolled down the cliff—I should like to see the spot where that accident occurred.’

Nick took us out in the garden and led us to the cliff edge. The sea glittered blue below us. A rough path led down the face of the rock. Nick described just where the accident occurred and Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Then he asked:

‘How many ways are there into your garden, Mademoiselle?’

‘There’s the front way—past the lodge. And a tradesman’s entrance—a door in the wall half-way up that lane. Then there’s a gate just along here on the cliff edge. It leads out on to a zig zag path that leads up from that beach to the Majestic Hotel. And then, of course, you can go straight through a gap in the hedge into the Majestic garden—that’s the way I went this morning. To go through the Majestic garden is a short cut to the town anyway.’

‘And your gardener—where does he usually work?’

‘Well, he usually potters round the kitchen garden, or else he sits in the potting-shed and pretends to be sharpening the shears.’

‘Round the other side of the house, that is to say?’

‘So that if anyone were to come in here and dislodge a boulder he would be very unlikely to be noticed.’

Nick gave a sudden little shiver.

‘Do you—do you really think that is what happened?’ she asked, ‘I can’t believe it somehow. It seems so perfectly futile.’

Poirot drew the bullet from his pocket again and looked at it.

‘That was not futile, Mademoiselle,’ he said gently.

‘It must have been some madman.’

‘Possibly. It is an interesting subject of after-dinner conversation—are all criminals really madmen? There may be a malformation in their little grey cells—yes, it is very likely. That, it is the affair of the doctor. For me—I have different work to perform. I have the innocent to think of, not the guilty—the victim, not the criminal. It is you I am considering now, Mademoiselle, not your unknown assailant. You are young and beautiful, and the sun shines and the world is pleasant, and there is life and love ahead of you. It is all that of which I think, Mademoiselle. Tell me, these friends of yours, Mrs Rice and Mr Lazarus—they have been down here, how long?’

‘Freddie came down on Wednesday to this part of the world. She stopped with some people near Tavistock for a couple of nights. She came on here yesterday. Jim has been touring round about, I believe.’

‘And Commander Challenger?’

‘He’s at Devonport. He comes over in his car whenever he can—week-ends mostly.’

Poirot nodded. We were walking back to the house. There was a silence, and then he said suddenly:

‘Have you a friend whom you can trust, Mademoiselle?’

‘There’s Freddie.’

‘Other than Mrs Rice.’

‘Well, I don’t know. I suppose I have. Why?’

‘Because I want you to have a friend to stay with you—immediately.’

‘Oh!’

Nick seemed rather taken aback. She was silent a moment or two, thinking. Then she said doubtfully:

‘There’s Maggie. I could get hold of her, I expect.’

‘Who is Maggie?’

‘One of my Yorkshire cousins. There’s a large family of them. He’s a clergyman, you know. Maggie’s about my age, and I usually have her to stay sometime or other in the summer. She’s no fun, though—one of those painfully pure girls, with the kind of hair that has just become fashionable by accident. I was hoping to get out of having her this year.’

‘Not at all. Your cousin, Mademoiselle, will do admirably. Just the type of person I had in mind.’

‘All right,’ said Nick, with a sigh. ‘I’ll wire her. I certainly don’t know who else I could get hold of just now. Everyone’s fixed up. But if it isn’t the Choirboys’ Outing or the Mothers’ Beanfeast she’ll come all right. Though what you expect her to do…’

‘Could you arrange for her to sleep in your room?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘She would not think that an odd request?’

‘Oh, no, Maggie never thinks. She just does—earnestly, you know. Christian works—with faith and perseverance. All right, I’ll wire her to come on Monday.’

‘Why not tomorrow?’

‘With Sunday trains? She’ll think I’m dying if I suggest that. No, I’ll say Monday. Are you going to tell her about the awful fate hanging over me?’

‘Nous verrons. You still make a jest of it? You have courage, I am glad to see.’

‘It makes a diversion anyway,’ said Nick.

Something in her tone struck me and I glanced at her curiously. I had a feeling that there was something she had left untold. We had re-entered the drawing-room. Poirot was fingering the newspaper on the sofa.

‘You read this, Mademoiselle?’ he asked, suddenly.

‘The St Loo Herald? Not seriously. I opened it to see the tides. It gives them every week.’

‘I see. By the way, Mademoiselle, have you ever made a will?’

‘Yes, I did. About six months ago. Just before my op.’

‘Qu’est ce que vous dites? Your op?’

‘Operation. For appendicitis. Someone said I ought to make a will, so I did. It made me feel quite important.’

‘And the terms of that will?’

‘I left End House to Charles. I hadn’t much else to leave, but what there was I left to Freddie. I should think probably the—what do you call them—liabilities would have exceeded the assets, really.’

Poirot nodded absently.

‘I will take my leave now. Au revoir, Mademoiselle. Be careful.’

‘What of?’ asked Nick.